


Waking Up To You

by Anonymous



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Hospital, Injured Stiles, Losing Time, M/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 10:24:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles isn't the type to enjoy physical pain or anything, but if he's gonna get a hot, sexy, older man out of it, then what the hell, it isn't like he doesn't get in these stupid life/death situations rather regularly anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waking Up To You

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this deviated a fair bit from the original prompt, but I hope the prompter likes it anyway! 
> 
>  
> 
> PROMPT: Stiles ends up in the hospital somehow, and he's bored out of his mind but also vulnerable and scared. The rest of the pack is busy and doesn't hear about it at first, but Peter finds out and he's the first person to stop by. Seeing Stiles hurt, Peter is unable to cover up his affection towards the boy anymore.

 

Stiles woke with a start. He sucked a harsh breath in through his teeth, body tensing painfully, before his eyes finally focused. He was in a hospital room, the cool mint and grey drab and colourless instead of soothing. The rhythmic beeping of the cardiac monitor and the distant sounds of the hospital began to lull him back to sleep, regardless of the room, the pain, and the sharp remnants of his recurring nightmare. He was well-drugged, after all.

 

Just as he was about to fall completely back to sleep, though, Stiles noticed a blurry figure seated to his right. He furrowed his brow, looking between half closed eyes, focusing on who that person could be. It wasn’t shaped like his father, was too silent and still to be Scott.

 

“Peter?” he finally croaked incredulously.

 

As his eyes slowly focused again, Stiles confirmed for himself that, yes, it was Peter. He would know that delighted, creepy smile anywhere. Stiles’ brain didn’t seem to be working at the speed it used to; everything seemed to happen in slow motion and he felt like he was seeing the world through frosted glass. Still, he glared the best he could at Peter.

 

“What are you doing here?” he attempted to hiss out, but it came out slurred and a lot less vehement than he had meant. His throat was dry, his tongue lazy with disuse.

 

“Just checking up on my favorite little human,” said Peter, his smile still smarmy, but Stiles finally noticed his eyes weren’t as bright with evil intent as usual. Was he... was he worried about Stiles?

 

“How long have I been out?” asked Stiles.

 

Peter reached for a large cup of ice water with a bendy straw in it and held it up for Stiles to take a drink.

 

“Only two days, this time,” he said, giving Stiles a smaller, more vulnerable half-smile. Yep, that was definitely worry in his eyes. What the hell? ...wait a minute, “this time?” What did that mean?

 

“This time?” asked Stiles as Peter put the cup back down.

 

“They were taking turns spending the day with you for the first week,” said Peter, “but life goes on, creatures of hell still walk the forest, criminals still lurk in the city. So, now you’ve got me.”

 

“Because you’re _not_ a creature of hell,” said Stiles with an awkward attempt at an eyeroll.

 

The corners of Peter’s face twitched at that, a small sparkle ignited in his eye.

 

“I’ve always liked you,” said Peter almost thoughtfully.

 

“You didn’t answer my question,” said Stiles.

 

“How astute of you,” replied Peter dryly before standing up and twisting his head and shoulders to pop his neck and back. “Do you need another drink, or shall I go alert the nurse that you’re awake, now?”

 

Stiles set his jaw and frowned up at Peter as menacingly as he could, but considering he was flat on his back and covered in random monitors, it more than likely fell short of anything intimidating. Peter grinned and winked at him before turning to leave. Stiles hated that asshole.

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Red eyes in the dark. A high pitched scream. Scott yelling in his face to run. Stiles’ heart was beating so hard and fast, it was a miracle it hadn’t beat right through his ribcage already. He tried to turn, tried to dash off into the forest with the others, but he was glued to the spot. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t scream. He couldn’t do anything. Red eyes descended.

 

Stiles woke with a start, sucking in a sharp breath and opening his eyes to look frantically around. He was in a hospital room. The walls were an ugly pastel green that had probably been chosen as a soothing colour. Stiles didn’t find them soothing. His heart was still pounding almost painfully in his chest. The monitor beside him began beeping a strange warning.

 

Stiles swung his head to the side just in time to see the door to his room burst open and two nurses rush in.

 

“Gwidon,” said one nurse as she reached his side, “you have to calm down, son. Take deep breaths.”

 

She placed her hand on his chest.

 

“Breathe with me, ready?” she said. Her eyes were wide with worry, with fear, she was not soothing in the least. “In. out. in. out. good. in. out.”

 

Stiles tried to do as she said while the second nurse shined a light in his eyes. He closed them, his eyes sensitive from being closed for who knew how long.

 

“In. out. In. out,” continued the nurse, pressing down heavily on Stiles’ chest and that was when Stiles realized he was fighting her.

 

“Sorry,” he choked out before taking in another ragged breath and trying to settle down.

 

“In. out…” she continued, ignoring his apology.

 

Stiles glanced to the side when he noticed a figure in his periphery. He continued to attempt to breathe the way the nurse was directing him, but his attention was on the man seated in a plastic chair across the room, seemingly unmoved by the scene. Peter fucking Hale.

 

Finally, Stiles’ breathing was under control and the nurse took her hand away from his chest. She made a few notes, checked the monitors, added something to his IV bag, and then, with a tight smile, left the room with the second nurse in tow.

 

“What are you doing here?” asked Stiles in annoyance, his voice raspy from the panic attack.

 

Peter smiled at him.

 

“I was enjoying your company until you had to ruin it by waking up,” he said.

 

Stiles narrowed his eyes.

 

“Do you realize how creepy that sounds?” he asked.

 

Peter’s smile only grew. It made Stiles’ frown grow. He purposely turned his head so he couldn’t make eye-contact with Peter. He stared up at the ugly tiles of the ceiling for a while, listening to the mostly-rhythmic now pings of his monitor.

 

“How long have I been out?” he asked after an undetermined amount of time.

 

Peter didn’t answer right away, so Stiles rolled his head to the side so he could look at him. The man looked so proper sitting in the plastic chair like it wasn’t the medieval torture device it was (Stiles knew, he had spent many a long evening in one just like it) with a thick, aged book in his hand.

 

“This time it was only twelve hours,” said Peter with a tight smile. Why did he look so concerned? Why would Peter Hale be worried about Stiles? What was going on?

 

“Wait… this time?” asked Stiles, brow furrowing in confusion. “What do you mean by ‘this time’?”

 

“You keep falling in and out of consciousness. It’s been just over a week,” said Peter with a shrug, looking back at his book like he fully intended on continuing his reading after dropping a bomb like that on Stiles.

 

Stiles was going to berate the asshole, but his eyelids suddenly felt very heavy and he felt his consciousness drifting.

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Gasping, Stiles woke up from the vivid nightmare to a quiet hospital room, drab and lifeless save for the pinging monitor at his side. He looked down at himself to see he had bandages over his bicep and wires attached to his chest. Frantically, he looked around the room.

 

He sighed out a breath of relief when he saw Scott’s familiar form sitting on the chair next to his bed. Scott had his cell out and had been tapping out a text. He pocketed it when he caught Stiles’ eye and gave Stiles a tight smile.

 

“Hey, buddy,” he said.

 

“Scott,” said Stiles, “how long have I been out?”

 

“Not too long, this time,” said Scott, his smile slightly forced. “Longer than last time, but still better than last week.”

 

That had Stiles reeling. He didn’t remember last week. He didn’t remember anything other than the night that damn creature had attacked them.

 

“Peter’s on his way,” said Scott, taking Stiles’ silence as acceptance of the information.

 

“Peter?” questioned Stiles, furrowing his brow. “Why… would I want Peter here?”

 

Scott’s face fell and then just looked pained.

 

“Shit,” he hissed under his breath, pulling out his cell from his pocket and hastily typing out another message.

 

Stiles watched him in confusion, not able to see what he was typing or who he was sending it to. Scott sent the text and then pocketed his phone. He gave Stiles a forced smile and let out a small sigh.

 

“So, wanna watch some crappy daytime television?” he asked.

 

Stiles agreed, if only to give himself some time to ponder out what was going on.

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

It didn’t look like a werewolf, not even like the scary, ugly monster Peter was when he first made his appearance as an alpha. It was too big, too ugly, too evil to be a werewolf. It had the body of a fucking giant ox. Was it a wereox? Was that a thing?

 

Stiles ran, Lydia and Scott ahead of him, Allison behind him shooting arrows behind her at the monster as she ran. It let out a monstrous bellow that shook the entire forest and caused Stiles to lose his footing. He went down hard, the wind knocked out of him. The thundering creature behind him with its black muscled body and its bright red eyes was fast approaching. Stiles scrambled to get up, but he couldn’t. Scott was screaming his name, but Stiles couldn’t get up, couldn’t breathe.

 

Stiles woke with a start, sitting upright in bed and sucking in a sharp breath.

 

“Scott,”  he rasped out, voice ragged and chest heaving.

 

“Nope, guess again,” came a smooth voice and Stiles paused a moment, swallowed and looked sideways.

 

He was in a hospital room. He was in a hospital room with Peter Hale sitting next to him in an uncomfortable plastic chair. Peter _fucking_ Hale was sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair holding a _Cosmopolitan_ magazine like he had been reading it before Stiles had woke up. The the actual hell?

 

“W-what,” stuttered out Stiles, taking a few more gulps of air before calming enough to get his breathing under control.

 

Peter set down his magazine and sat considering Stiles for a few beats before getting up and moving closer to his bed. Stiles tensed. He didn’t like being so vulnerable next to a proven predator.

 

“What do you remember?” asked Peter, his eyes searching.

 

“I…”

 

Stiles closed his eyes and tried to concentrate.

 

“We were in the woods and that freaky monster thing came at us,” he said, swallowing a few times and licking his dry lips. When he opened his eyes, Peter was holding a large cup of ice water out to him. Stiles took a drink through the straw, wetting his dry throat.

 

“You’ve been in the hospital for two weeks, Stiles,” murmured Peter.

 

“What?” gasped Stiles.

 

“You’ve been falling in and out of consciousness, like a waking coma of sorts,” said Peter, voice still strangely gentle. “The doctors have no idea what’s causing it. Sometimes you wake up with all your memories intact, sometimes not so much. They can’t find anything wrong in the MRIs and CT scans.”

 

“Where’s my dad?” asked Stiles, feeling panic returning to his chest.

 

“He’s at work,” said Peter, placatingly, “everyone is fine; healthy, safe and fine. You’re the only lucky one.”

 

Stiles grimaced, but nodded.

 

“Why are you here?” he asked, then.

 

Peter’s face fell for a millisecond, but he plastered on a fake smile and shrugged his shoulders.

 

“I was getting tired of listening to the idiotic plans the rest of the pack have been trying to put together, and the bickering, my g-d, the bickering,” said Peter, giving Stiles an exaggerated look of exasperation. “They never knew how much they needed you until you decided to spend a long holiday napping in the hospital.”

 

“Yes, this is my idea of a good time,” grumbled Stiles, glaring at Peter.

 

Peter smiled benignly before grimacing as if smiling without evil intent was painful for him.

 

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

 

Stiles looked down at himself, saw he was in a hospital gown, had a few cords stuck to his torso leading to two different monitors, but was otherwise whole and himself. He wiggled his toes, twisted at the waist a few times, cracked his neck. Yeah, he was good, just stiff from being in bed for… two weeks.

 

“I’m okay,” said Stiles, “could use an extra large order of curly fries, but otherwise…”

 

He let himself trail off, shrugging at Peter and wondering why he felt so comfortable under that piercing gaze.

 

“If you promise to remember me next time you wake up, I promise to bring you some curly fries,” said Peter.

 

“I…” began Stiles, furrowing his brow in confusion. “What?” he asked, instead, because he had recognized Peter immediately. What did Peter mean?

 

Peter did a grimace-smile thing and nodded to himself.

 

“That’s what I thought,” Peter said lowly; nearly a whisper.

 

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Stiles woke with a start, but remained still and fought his breathing to stay under control. He had been dreaming. It was just a dream. The great, black, red-eyed beast had died. Derek had ripped its throat out, Isaac had tore out its heart with his bare, wolfy hands, and Lydia had lit it on fire. Stiles knew this because Peter had told him. It had been the middle of the night and Stiles had woke up screaming. Peter had held him tight, had rocked him back and forth, had kissed his tear stained cheeks and told him over and over again.

 

Taking a deep breath, Stiles opened his eyes. The room was gray-green in the ugliest of ways, the monitor at his side was whirring and blipping along with his pulse, and Peter was fast asleep on an uncomfortable-looking, plastic hospital chair.

 

“What are you doing here?” asked Stiles.

 

Peter’s eyes flicked open and he sat up from where he had been crumpled with sleep. He blinked at Stiles a few times, a frown deep on his face.

 

“I was tired of the loud ‘love-making’ sounds coming from Isaac’s room back at the apartment,” said Peter.

 

For having just been asleep, his eyes were sharp, alert. He was searching Stiles’ face as if hoping for something.

 

“You could always just sleep in my bed back at my house,” said Stiles, before stifling a yawn. “I mean, it isn’t like Dad would even notice if you went in through the window. You don't need to spend the nights here, Peter.”

 

A grin spread across Peter’s face and he moved the chair closer to Stiles’ bed. He reached for Stiles’ hand and entwined their fingers.

 

“I didn’t want to leave your side,” he whispered before leaning in to place a soft kiss to the corner of Stiles’ mouth.

 

Stiles grinned and lifted his other hand to cup Peter’s face and pull him in for a proper kiss. Peter readily licked into his mouth, not seeming to care about the sleep-stale taste.

 

“You are the neediest werewolf I’ve ever met,” murmured Stiles when they pulled apart.

 

Peter grinned, his canines inhumanly sharp but not off putting in the least.

 

“And that’s really saying something, buddy,” continued Stiles, smile growing, “considering the werewolves I know.”

 

“I don’t know how I should feel about you degrading my nephew and first beta,” mused Peter, dryly.

 

“I could make it up to you,” said Stiles, hopefully, licking his lips.

 

“How about make it up to me by hurrying up and getting better,” said Peter, before leaning in to press his nose behind Stiles’ ear and inhaling deeply. “Then you can make it up to me, properly,” he whispered and Stiles could feel goosebumps raising on his skin.

 

“Yeah,” said Stiles through a shiver.

 

“You’re nearly there,” said Peter, after pulling back. “Now that the curse has been lifted and you’ve stopped losing time, it’ll only be a matter of time.”

 

“Damn witches and their fucked up were-ox mounts,” cursed Stiles, cheekily.

 

“Were-ox mounts,” repeated Peter as if the words were so ridiculous that he had to taste them on his own tongue.

  
Stiles grinned. It was hard to imagine sometimes, but Peter’s presence alone had that effect on him. He couldn’t help but feel giddy with the beautiful, older man so near. He couldn’t wait to get out of there so he could see just how beautiful his new were-boyfriend was. Damn, did he need to get laid.


End file.
